


fireworks in december

by cephea



Category: Ookiku Furikabutte | Big Windup!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 20:18:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1954887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cephea/pseuds/cephea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"hey, riou, what kind of battery should we be?"</p>
<p>"the kind that spends less time at mcdonald's."</p>
            </blockquote>





	fireworks in december

**Author's Note:**

  * For [transversely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/transversely/gifts).



> this creature was an absolute monster to beta and i thank every star for the patience mine had with me. i've never been to Chichibu Yomatsuri, so i wholeheartedly take full accountability for any inaccuries this lack of experience has led me to make. i have, however, been to mcdonald's.
> 
> i hope this lands in the right ballpark of things you hoped for when signing up for this event, and
> 
> enjoy!

It’s as the first raindrops cascading off your mussed hair and eyelashes start sneaking past your scarf and seeping cold and prickling into your collarbones that you begin to truly regret that Junta did not deign to bring an umbrella. You’d messaged him the weather forecast (and gone through the last three months of your conversations making sure you had actually remembered to message him, and you need to learn to delete your messages, and you probably need to learn to stop reading and rereading old messages that were sent casually and not meant to be carved in technological stone, and you maybe need to stop messaging him so much you’re probably a bother and this whole log is you complaining and begging to a wall of one-two-three word responses, and that’s probably annoying and- ) and you had honestly hoped he would have noticed because now you feel awkward using your umbrella while he gets drenched. The result is that now you’re both cold, and wet, and late, and. You’re still not entirely sure why you allowed yourself to be dragged out here in the first place.

So what if you’ve lived in Saitama for years and never seen Chichibu Yomatsuri. It’s mostly for tourists anyway, right? Tourists and people with emotional investments in the shrine and people who think shivering in the rain twenty feet away from a parade is a decent time and certainly not you. (But, “I’ll go with you, Riou!” he’d laughed, gently, mirthfully, while holding steady eye contact and going slightly ruddy in the cheeks where his sunburn from the fall tournament still held its ground, “you can’t just not ever go!”)

You can feel the dirt between your toes as you wriggle them out of numbness, soaked into your shoes from the puddle Junta parked you in when you got here. The floats aren’t visible from where you are yet, though you can faintly hear the regular pulsing of drums and voices calling out directions from down the street. It’s dark and drizzling and annoying, and even though you got here late you feel like you’ve been here too long and Junta keeps shifting from tiptoes to heels.

Amidst the children running up and down the street, shrill, shrieking, knocking into your sides, you spot Tajima’s friend (Mihashi? you’re unsure, but, then it echoes back on you from summer, pounding in your ears from the opposing stands, falling like glittering gumdrops out of Tajima’s mouth as he cackles across from you in the stadium, your starched shirt itchy in the heat) running by with a girl with his same nose and ears and you think maybe even their laughing matches up. Her white tights are splattered and stained with mud up to her thighs, false eyelashes slipping and mascara running down her cheeks, hair frizzed in a million directions and demeanor brighter than spring and. Her fingers are tangled so earnestly into his you’re ashamed to look, even moreso when her other hand is taken up by someone you sort of recognize. (Not from Saitama; are they visiting? Family, friends? Isn’t he that forkball pitcher from Gunma, maybe? Probably.)

The rain is beating down on them just as dispassionately and steadily as it is on you, but it’s as if they can’t tell, leaning in cheerfully to hear each other over the din, sharing sloppy ramen burgers with the only two hands left free. Not-Mihashi shoves the empty food wrapper into the pocket of his wool peacoat and tugs at his scarf until it falls loose from his neck. He wraps it around them reverently, like a prayer worn threadbare, and flushes at how close it pulls them all together. It tastes bitter behind your teeth until you remember not to stare and see Junta smirking lopsidedly at you.

The colours that surge out behind him just then twist between your ribs like breathlessness.

The red lacquered roofs and spiraling etched gold fauna, tangerine and cantaloupe lanterns shuddering faintly like fruit trees in the breeze, brightly painted faces cheering ecstatically as the floats lumber past. They’re slow and purposeful and the cascading pink flowers that bloom out from the tips seem to swell and loom towards you with every step and your palms twitch to reach out back and nothing is as dazzling until Junta catches the awe you misplaced in your eyes and starts guffawing into your side.

You elbow him, hard, (“Riouuuuuuu, owwwwww!!!”) and forget to blink at the impossibly intricate precision of the architecture, imposing silhouette swaying as the raucous sound of the procession reaches its peak. The performers still shout, lost voices of tomorrow borrowed in cracked, hoarse undertones, and the ethereal light shimmers across the metallic embroidery of their kimono. They wave pulsing lanterns at the crowd and you feel the breadth of the pulse in your fingertips and the warmth of the glow in your toes.

The stars above seem almost to descend to join the dancing of lights, searing in the corners of your eyelids. Junta, however, is too short to properly see from the poor angle of your tardy viewing spot and he’s vibrating with impatience (people keep pushing closer and closer to the sides of the streets, there are people touching him now, accidentally, he hates crowds, hates proximity, you don’t know why he offered to come when you would’ve shown up because he told you to any- oh, Junta- )

He kicks you in the shin to get your attention.

“We could leave early and catch a train before they get full? We probably won’t see the fireworks from here anyway, Jun-san…” you offer, hoping desperately that’s what you’re supposed to say.

His eyes light up brighter than the moon above and you’re almost embarrassed by how honest he is about this, but he’s captivating, grounding.

“Mmm! Let me under your umbrella for the walk back!”

“W-what, no, that’s weird, Jun-san-“

“It’ll be fine, don’t worry!”

“What do you mean, ‘it’ll be fine’?!”

“It’s not a big a deal, people will just think you’re a foreigner!”

“H-HEY!”

“If you weren’t such a giant, Riou…” and he’s sing-song and airy; he’s lifting a finger, shaking it as if to scold, but then flicks your nose and pries out your umbrella from your clammy hands.

He raises it above you and as it opens the immediate sound of rain tap-tap-tapping against the plastic hones your focus to the space between you. The only places left in the world are small and meek under the circle of this umbrella, the gravel at your feet and the teasing and tentative look Junta wears in the slant of his eyebrows. Nobody is staring at you (yet, yet, yet, your mind whispers) but Junta, though, so you let him loop his right arm into your left and take the handle clumsily, feet guided by the momentum of his steps as you meander back to Seibu Station.

Junta is quiet as you trudge through mud, sludge, and exuberant family units against the proper flow of traffic and quiet again as your filthy shoes start thudding against proper cement inside the station. It’d bother you but you’re starting to get used to silences with him (the silence that filled your drained, satisfied successes in the fall tournament, beleaguered and difficult, more difficult than it should have been, better than the silence you felt after summer, draining and not drained, better than the silence without him).

You’re attempting to walk towards the platform, but your body gets pulled back abruptly when Junta isn’t, and he halts the two of you in front of the giant monitors showing the parade. You shake out the umbrella, folding it up with dripping hands and turn to see if he’s trying to say something. The florescent lighting settles in a halo circling his mussed hair, just as angelic as shrine lighting had been, and that’s terrible, he’s terrible, so you turn to face the monitors to see what caught his attention.

The displays are running the firework show live from the Chichibu Shrine; you knew over 1500 fireworks in three hours was a lot, but it’s more than you conceptualized, sky lit pale indigo and blurry electric flashes of neon green and pink and red twinkling and trembling. You marvel idly at the smoke dancing behind curtains of sparks, marvel at the hushed glare of explosions the camera can’t quite capture perfectly, marvel at Junta’s weight still pressed flush to your side.

“….Hey, Riou, since no one expects us back for a couple of hours, let’s go somewhere...” he’s only just talking over the other chatter in the station and he hasn’t taken his eyes off the screen to look at you.

“Why do I get the feeling you already have something in mind.”

His smirk splits his face and he eyes you, conniving and mischievous.

“Take me to McDonald’s!”

“… Not this again, Jun-san. Don’t act cool about it, it’s… Why didn’t you get food earlier?”

He turns his head to hit you with the full brunt of a calculated plan not-yet fully thwarted.

“Riouuu! Let’s go!”

“I don’t wanna! Go by yourself if you’re so set on it.”

“But I told Kazu-san we’d meet him when we were done!”

“Then why didn’t you just. Say that first!”

“Because I wanted to go with you!”

“That’s,” fine, but he knows when he’s won and he’s already loping off to buy tickets, polite demeanor plastered on for anyone who isn’t you to see.

He pretends to sleep on you on the train, and it’s horrid, and the mother across from you has steadily refused to make eye contact as her children sleep against her lap. (You could shove him off, slam your shoulder into his chin so he can’t fake it, slap his knee, knock into him, push him hard and hope he tumbles straight to the floor, you could- ) You place your free hand against your chest where your cross hangs, pray for temperance, and close your eyes until your stop.

The McDonald’s Junta picked out is dingy and smells more like frying grease than you’re used to. You wait in line with him until he’s reached the front, and the employee is staring at him expectantly, but he’s just staring at you. You make the best grimace you’ve got, the one Kazuki had said reminded him of Roka, and order what you know he wants. You remember to ask for ‘no pickles, extra ketchup,’ you remember to get it large and another fry on top of that, and you remember the first time you’d been to a McDonald’s with just Junta, sweaty and victorious and still exultant for the beginning of your partnership.

Kazuki isn’t here yet, and probably won’t be for a while, as you realize Junta probably never bothered to tell him you had left early. You zone out, burger in hand, to a background of couples bickering in hushed voices and middle school girls out too late chirping excitedly and families exasperatedly trying to clean up after themselves in order to leave. When you remember to pay attention, Kazuki is sliding into the booth next to Junta, and Junta is calmly eating your fries, fingers slick with grease and glistening with salt crystals. You scowl.

Kazuki turns to you first, already amused by your struggle.

“Did you enjoy them?”

“I didn’t have a chance to before Jun-san stole them.”

“The floats, Riou, the floats!” he’s laughing breathily as he teases, and it’s horrifically different from the hyena barking that you’ve become so accustomed to but it’s familiar and soft, proper, and you’ve missed hearing it.

You sink your weight down on the hand you’ve got holding your chin until your cheeks starts obstructing your line of sight, muddling your view of Kazuki waiting patiently to care about how you’ve been.

“They were okay, I guess.” His smile is sincere and kind for a brilliant moment before dropping off anxiously and he dregs up something you know you won’t like to say.

“Look, I –“

“Kazu-san, aren’t you going to order anything?”

“No, Junta, I have to –“

“Then, let me order something for you!” and Junta forces them both out of the booth seat and plops back in line. Kazuki hovers over you, debating his options before you kick him under the table and glare at him until he hesitantly sits back down.

“I really do have to get going, Riou. You understand, right? Exam period is just over a month away and there’s a lot left to do.”

You look at Junta’s white knuckles clenched in nervous fists as he waits in line before looking at the open appeal Kazuki is trying to make to your better judgment.

He’d be more believable if he hadn’t shown up (if he’d messaged Junta that he was busy, if he’d waited for you to chew him out for it under the table because you both know Junta doesn’t check phones, because you both know he doesn’t want to be here, because it’s harder to face Kazuki now that you know that about him when he’s still willing to meet you head on).

“You came, though.”

“It was so close to the cram school and it was your first time going, so I thought it’d be a shame not to stop by, but I really – “

“Don’t want to see us?”

“Riou, that’s - “

“I’d be less upset about it if you weren’t spending so much time near Roka, instead.”

The words taste like acid, and they’re burning like it across Kazuki’s face, but there’s only so long the line can last before Junta comes back and his impatience has become your trademark together.

“Riou,” the way he meets your gaze is nothing less than imploring, but you figure if he’s going to think of you as childish anyway, you want wholeheartedly to fulfill his expectations, so you make him finish, “I am glad I came to see you. Both of you.”

That’s only parts of the truth, but he’s steadying a breath as if to hold it, and Junta had asked him to come without your help, and he had, so you guess you can let that be enough for now. (Junta’s weight collides next to you on your side of the booth, peace offering of fresh fries strewn across the tray in the middle of table like he’s not sure who they’re for, and you think of how long this will take, how getting used to reaching out to each other without stepladders and safety nets to protect you will be difficult. You think of the peach glow of the flower ornaments reaching towards you, and the bittersweet taste of peaches unripe and overripe just before and after summer, and the peach tint to Kazuki’s cheekbones and- )

You lazily pick up a soggy fry and chomp down hard on it before pushing the tray towards Kazuki. He shoves three in his mouth hastily as he slings his schoolbag over his shoulder and bows his goodbyes. You and Junta wave and you’re completely unsurprised when Junta claims the fries as his own after Kazuki’s graceful retreat.

“That was weird!” he announces to you gleefully, cheeks crammed to the brim with potato.

He rubs circles into your palm with his thumb under your bag on the train ride home and you accidentally memorize the texture of his fingerprint.

(“Jun-san, people will think we’re on a date!”

“I don’t know what you mean!”

“Stop dodging trouble!”

“But Riou, what if we are on a date?”

“Jun-san!!”)

When you collapse into your bed, face buried in pillows, exhaustion radiating from every joint and thought, you notice you’ve got a message from Kazuki.

_you took up the pick-off_

You don’t respond until early January when you send the same thing back.

 

... 

 

( _good luck!)_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
